


A World for only you and me

by dreamland_denials



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Hannibal AU, Hopeful Ending, M/M, This Is Sad, poetic dialogue that lowkey makes me hate this, re-uploaded, this is highkey confusing if you haven't seen Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamland_denials/pseuds/dreamland_denials
Summary: Prompto feels as though he's existing at the seams, the threads of his mind slowly unraveling, frayed and splint like the split ends in his hair, left dirty to the exposure of the world. He wants to stay home with his chocobos. He wants to finish developing the pictures in his makeshift darkroom. Wants to stop suddenly finding his body in new places without remembering how he got there. But the urge to completely let go, to embrace that sick, pleasant feeling that’s churning in his gut, tempts him.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	A World for only you and me

Prompto feels as though he's existing at the seams, the threads of his mind slowly unraveling, frayed and splint like the split ends in his hair, left dirty to the exposure of the world. He wants to stay home with his chocobos. He wants to finish developing the pictures in his makeshift darkroom. Wants to stop suddenly finding his body in new places without remembering how he got there. But the urge to completely let go, to embrace that sick, pleasant feeling that’s churning in his gut, tempts him. 

“When you were eighteen, you applied to join the Crownsguard but didn’t make it,” Doctor Scientia watches as Prompto climbs the ladder to the second floor of his office. ”The screening process detects any instabilities, but Clarus knew he could use you to handle profiling criminals. Empathy is a powerful tool.” 

“Well, you can’t exactly have someone who thinks like a killer hanging around the prince,” Prompto scans over the bookcases of neatly organized medical journals and tactical books, running his fingers along the spines, “Cor’s been trying to get me to stop for the past decade, I think. He knows what doing this does to me, and after what happened with Talcott I ... I can’t just suddenly walk away. Especially when I’m saving lives.”

“What does it do to you?” Ignis leans against his desk, a curious lilt to his voice. 

Prompto looks down at him over the railing but quickly averts his eyes. Those green eyes are too distracting, too alluring even from a distance. He loses his train of thought whenever he looks at them. “It sends me to dark places.”

“In total darkness, people lose their sense of time. Their circadian rhythm goes off-kilter, and what feels like a short nap can end up being almost thirty hours. It can affect one’s physiology to the point of insanity,” Ignis says, “Would you risk your own sanity to save lives?” 

Prompto pulls out a book on war tactics and politics. “Yeah, I would risk even my own life.”

“What would you do if you could not profile criminals?” Ignis asks. 

“Dunno,” Prompto shrugs, idly flipping through the worn pages, “either work at a mechanics shop or on a chocobo farm. Did you always plan on being a therapist?”

“When I was younger I had sworn an oath to watch over the prince and be his advisor,” Ignis lets out a small sigh, “but after I graduated high school I decided to walk a different path.”

“How come?” Prompto puts the book back and walks back to descend the ladder, “It seems kind of weird. The Scientias are loyal to the crown, but you left to take on other things.”

“I am not completely out of the prince’s life,” Ignis replies quickly, almost defensively, and clears his throat. “If he needs me I am but a phone call away. Now then, shall we sit down?”

Prompto looks between the leather chairs facing each other. “Cor said therapy doesn’t work on me because I don’t let it work on me. I just don’t want anyone running around in my head. But he’s worried, says I don’t ask for help when I need to. He thinks I need someone to talk to, even insisted on talking to you since you were there with me when I-when I killed Jared Hester.”

“Then instead we can call them conversations over some drinks,” Ignis turns and walks to one of the cabinets in the back of the office by the fireplace. He takes out an amber bottle and two cups. 

“Aren’t we technically in a session?” Prompto raises an eyebrow but reaches out to take a cup. 

“I already signed your psychological evaluation papers,” Ignis says as he pours the whisky, “and you are perfectly sane. So no, technically we are not in a session. You are not my patient.”

“Then these are just conversations,” Prompto squints his eyes, raising the cup to his mouth to hover in front of his lips. 

Ignis gives him a small, amused smile, and takes the first sip. “Just conversations.” 

So they talk, and Prompto forgets how he got home. 

In the fortress of his mind, more walls erect, loaded with turrets, and the solid grounds around it are littered with bear traps and pit holes. Jared Hester stands with him behind sturdy walls, looks at him with glassy eyes. Prompto looks back, and he's holding Talcott Hester, a hunting knife at his neck. In one moment his hands feel the racing pulse under warm flesh and in the next, there are soft black chocobo feathers against his fingertips. He knows exactly where to cut. 

When Prompto startles awake, gasping for air and gripping the bedsheets, he sits up and feels sweat roll down his face and back. At least he woke up in his bed this time and not on the roof or sleepwalking down the road. He takes a deep breath, rubbing the sweat and tears from his eyes. He stumbles to the bathroom, not bothering to flick on the lights, and splashes cold water on his face.

In the mirror he stares back, dyed black hair and goatee and blue eyes darker in the thin shafts of moonlight. The wristband feels tighter around his wrist, but he doesn’t take it off. Pulling off the damp shirt, he tosses it to the ground and gets towels to put down on the bed. 

The baby chocobo wrapped snugly in blankets by the fireplace chirps as he walks by. He checks on her, changes the bandages, and coos softly for her to go back to sleep. It's not the first injured chocobo he's taken care of, and it certainly won't be the last. Eventually, he'll come up with a name for her when he introduces her to the others once she's healthy. 

Instead of moving back to the bed, he continues to hold the chocobo in his lap, back leaning against the wall. The fire crackles, and he sighs. He doesn't fall back asleep until the sky outside his windows is a pale blue. 

He dreams of black chocobos and bloody hunting knives. There’s the heavy smell of gunpowder and blood. The taste of flat Ebony and copper fill his mouth until it feels he’s choking on it. 

"Prompto!" there's a firm hand on his shoulders as he blinks awake, and looks up. "Good morning. I'm assuming you did not have breakfast yet?"

"Doctor Scientia," Prompto murmurs, "didn't know you made house calls.” He vaguely wonders how he even got in but quickly realizes how he never locks his doors. Practically living in the middle of nowhere far from the crown city doesn’t really instill the need to lock them. His chocobos are the best guard dogs, after all. The revolver on his bedside table helps him feel safe, too. 

"I do not," Ignis still has his hand on Prompto's bare shoulder, "but if I did, I certainly wouldn't make breakfast during a session."

"So drinking with a patient doesn't cross ethical boundaries, but going to their house and making breakfast does?" Prompto looks into his eyes, and can't look away. They're so distracting, how green they are, how tightly they hold him in his gaze. 

"You are not my patient," Ignis simply says, removing his hand to stand up, and Prompto feels the loss of heat instantly. "Another stray?" 

"She was limping alongside the road," Prompto nods, looking down at the still sleeping bird cuddled up in his lap, "gave her a bath, and patched her up. It's a bad habit."

"Kindness is hardly a bad habit," Ignis says, lips twitching upwards slightly, "your predisposition to stay kind and to act on that kindness in such a cruel world takes the determination of a strong heart. It's admirable." 

Prompto gently lays the chocobo back in her nest of blankets. He stands up and follows Ignis into the kitchen. 

"My predisposed kindness led me to kill Jared Hester," Prompto watches as Ignis opens his fridge and takes out eggs and bacon.

"But you saved his grandson," Ignis rolls up his sleeves, "and from the dark place that Clarus sent you to, you brought back a surrogate son."

"I brought back another stray," Prompto mutters, leaning against the counter, "so is this an act of kindness, driving all the way here to cook me breakfast?" 

"It's more of an indirect act of self-preservation," Ignis glances at him, "since you look to preserve everyone else around you but yourself." 

"I guess being a therapist means you'd have to be predisposed to altruism, wouldn't it?" Prompto lifts himself up to sit on the counter, "but performing acts of self-preservation for other people kinda misses the point of it being  _ self _ -preservation."

"Hence it being indirect."

"Some people would just say you're being a nice guy," Prompto huffs out a laugh, "why are you really here?" 

"Some people would also say self-preservation is a basic instinct, yet your fortresses are not built to keep the demons out," Ignis says, putting down the stripes of bacon on a heated pan, "and is it simply not enough to want to cook for a friend?"

"You prod at my mental state a lot for someone who isn't your patient," Prompto crosses his arms, feeling a draft of cold air as he realizes he never put on a shirt. "Are we friends?"

"I greatly enjoy our conversations, so I like to believe we are," Ignis cracks open two eggs over another pan and seasons them with salt and pepper, "perhaps in another universe, our roles would be reversed, or even entirely different." 

"I can't imagine myself being a therapist," Prompto frowns, "too much socializing.” 

“And I do not see myself working as a criminal profiler,” Ignis gives him a small smile, “although I was thinking, in another plane of existence, your hair would be blonde. It would certainly match your blue eyes.”

Prompto swallows. “My hair actually is blonde, but I dyed it a long time ago. People don’t care for Niffs too much.”

“Ah, your final act of self-preservation,” Ignis takes down a plate and places napkins on it, laying the strips of bacon across it, “but it’s a shame. It’s such a beautiful part of you.”

Prompto isn’t sure if he’s talking about his hair or about being from Niflheim. He fiddles with his wristband. Surely he means his hair, but it looks more like a chocobo butt. Trying to tame was always a hassle, so eventually, he just let it grow out. As long as he continued being useful, the state of his hair or what color it used to be doesn’t matter. Prompto knows what he is. He doesn’t need anyone to remind him. 

“What do you think the Astrals say to the Oracle?” Ignis suddenly asks.

Prompto shrugs. “Their blessings, I guess. I doubt they much care to talk about the weather.”

“To talk about the weather can sometimes fill a lull in a conversation,” Ignis says, “it’s been snowing quite heavily lately.”

“Are you trying to carry the conversation, or tell me that I need to shovel my driveway?” 

Ignis’s lips twitch into a smile. “A bit of both.”

“The gods don’t need to do either,” Prompto says, swinging his legs a bit, “to do those things would bring them closer to being human.”

“To be human is to be mortal,” Ignis looks at him, and Prompto shudders. He isn’t sure if it’s from his intense gaze or from lack of clothes. Maybe both. “To disobey the gods is to inspire damnation on our souls after death. They obverse us, and even punish those who attempt to mimic their power. There are rumors of cloning in Niflheim, and that under the masks of their soldiers every face is a carbon copy of one another. But are we not copies of one another, made in the machine that we’ve built of society? Tell me, Prompto, do you feel like a copy?”

Prompto clutches his wrist. “If I were a copy, then I would need to be made of the same stuff as everyone else, but I’m not.”

“Even if you are not made of the same materials as a Lucian,” Ignis says, a sharp look in his eye, “you are still a crown citizen.”

“So you know?” Prompto asks, pulse racing. 

Ignis nods. “I read your files and did a background check. When I spoke to Cor about your forged birth certificates he told me how he found you in a lab in Niflheim and rescued you.” 

“And you still consider us friends?” Prompto balks, slightly miffed at how he spoke so nonchalantly about his origins. Some people would cut off communication if he even alluded to the notion of him being from Niflheim, but for someone to know what he truly was and still want to be near him? It was incomprehensible.

“I find you interesting,” Ignis says just as casually, “perhaps your pure empathy comes from how you were made. Or maybe that was a deliberate part of your design.” 

“My designation is to fight and kill,” Prompto scoffs, “or that’s what it would’ve been if Cor hadn’t found me. He just wants me to have a better life.” 

“You live far away from others, and have practically a small herd of chocobos,” Ignis smiles, “you dyed your hair to assimilate and to remove the stigma of being from Niflheim, yet you could only create a place where you belong because you could not fit in anywhere else. Your ability to think like a killer makes you unique, and you use that to help save lives. Despite the odds, you’ve made a good life for yourself here.”

“Because of the odds, I find myself in places I don’t remember going to and losing sleep over nightmares,” Prompto sighs, “if the gods are talking about anything, it’s probably about how they won’t give me a break.”

“The gods gave you Talcott Hester,” Ignis puts the food on low heat and moves to stand right in front of Prompto.

“Talcott Hester isn’t a  _ gift _ ,” Prompto sneers, “killing his guardian doesn’t me his new one.”

“I was with you,” Ignis whispers, putting his hands on the counter on either side of Prompto’s legs, leaning in, “I was there to hold the blood in his neck. We both stayed at his side in the hospital for several days, watching over him. Who knows him better than us? Only we know the burdens he shoulders. We are all he has left.”

Prompto leans in, too. “I bought him a camera the other day. I wasn’t even thinking about it. I want to show him how to take pictures.”

“How do you think he’ll see the world through your lens?” Ignis asks, green eyes sparkling in the morning light, “Would you see yourself reflected back in the images he takes, or see an entirely different person?”

“Even in the mirror, I don’t see myself,” Prompto’s breath catches in his throat, their faces so close now, “I’ve stopped taking pictures of myself after I dyed my hair.”

“Dye it back,” Ignis murmurs, “leave the gods so fiercely jealous that the sun left herself in your locks and the sea in your eyes that they have no choice but to talk with one another.” 

“Can gods get jealous?” Prompto asks, laughing softly. “It would make them too human.”

“To give us their blessings and hellfire, their wraths, and waves of love, there is a spark of humanity in those acts,” Ignis chuckles, “and to bestow an Oracle upon us ties them to us indefinitely.”

“If the gods kill us to destroy the Starscourge then their love is not for humanity,” Prompto looks from his eyes to his lips, “unless we die out first.”

“Humans are stubborn, fickle beings,” Ignis brings up his hand to curl a strand of hair behind Prompto’s ear, “those qualities are only amplified in the hands of all-knowing gods. We will see it as a race of who will perish first, or who can kill each other first. How did it feel to kill Jared Hester, Prompto?”

Prompto’s voice shakes. “It’s the ugliest feeling in the world.”

“To kill a human as a god would be inconsequential,” Ignis strokes his hair, “for a god to kill a fellow god would be an endless battle of matched power. An ouroboros devouring its own tail, perfect in wholeness. A human killing a god is almost inconceivable without the use of magic, but even then if a human must sell their soul for the magic to kill a god then, in the end, they are no longer human. But for a human to kill another human, that is an act that defies the gods.”

“Killing Jared Hester felt  _ good _ ,” Prompto trembles, and Ignis is there to hold him. 

“Even the gods will not know the pleasure of defying themselves,” Ignis brings his other hand to the back of Prompto’s neck, “but they too feel powerful when they kill. Killing Jared Hester felt good because he killed boys that looked like his grandson. Whether you perceive it as you fulfilling your original purpose or simply doing your job, the truth of the matter is that you saved Talcott, Prompto.”

“My purpose was to be a tool for the empire,” Prompto cries, burying his face in Ignis’ shoulder, “and if it felt  _ good  _ for me to fulfill that purpose, then that’s a whole different type of fucked up that I don’t think I can really handle.” 

“Your job takes the type of determination that calls for a strong, kind heart and a moral obligation to save others,” Ignis says, rubbing circles into his neck. “To pull the trigger on Jared Hester took away his only chance to show his grandson his love for him. Your nightmares of Jared Hester remind you of this.”

Prompto slowly lifts his face, and Ignis wipes away the stray tears on his cheeks. Ignis pulls away, returning to the food, and Prompto stares at the ground.

“Would you like to get off the counter and eat at the table?” Ignis asks, having plated their food. 

“It’s my house, I can eat on the counter if I want,” Prompto scowls, but he finds there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Just sit up here and eat with me.”

Ignis raises his eyebrow, but there’s still an amused smile on his face. “Well, I suppose it would be rude of me to argue with you on that.” 

So they sit side by side on his cramped counter, legs barely touching as they eat. Prompto stares out the window. There’s a blot of black against the white, and Prompto sees the shape of a chocobo playing in the freshly fallen snow. He blinks again, and it’s gone. 

It’s silent, but Prompto has never felt so comfortable in the silence as when he’s sitting in silence with Ignis. 

\---

Bear traps generally trap more than just bears. If Prompto were smarter, he’d realize he stepped into his own bear trap. Or better yet, had not laid traps within his fortress to begin with. But in the corners of his mind, the shadows become tangible and assume the shape of a coeurl. There’s a weight to them now, he can hear it in the creaks of the floorboards where they prowl. Their whiskers are long, charging the air with electricity as it circles him, stalks him. His eyes burn and he can taste the spicy heat of it mingle with the iron from his blood. In the moonlight, his blood running down his leg looks black. 

“Did you fantasize about killing me?” Ignis asks hands folded neatly over his lap. 

“Yes,” Prompto says, holding his gaze. 

“Tell me,” Ignis slightly cocks his head to the side, “how would you do it?”

“With my hands,” Prompto answers. 

“Guns are your expertise,” Ignis says, “you have ninety-five accuracy when it comes to targets. You would have no trouble pinpointing where to shot me to hit which artery at exactly which angle. But a gun lacks physical contact. You could perform a headshot from point-blank range or from ten yards, yet neither would leave you satisfied.”

Prompto licks his dry lips, gazing at Ignis as he gazes back. He feels a rush of heat travel through him. “It lacks intimacy.” 

“When I was young, I was trained in sword fighting, and many other disciplines of combat,” Ignis stares off into the middle distance, reminiscing, “but my weapon of choice was always daggers.” 

“Your childhood home was close to the citadel and you were raised to raise another,” Prompto knows the name of the boy he was to take care of but doesn’t say it, because he knew him too once upon a time. Were Prompto more confident, braver, perhaps less unique, then maybe they would’ve been friends. Maybe, in another universe, they are. “You were an orphan.”

“As were you,” Ignis turns his eyes back on Prompto, “but you didn’t stay in a foster home forever.”

Prompto squirms in his seat. “The couple who adopted me were never around. Whatever love they meant to give me was an afterthought to the monthly government checks. It didn’t help that they didn’t know how to deal with me.”

“You are not a _ thing _ to be dealt with,” Ignis says, a sharper tone to his voice, “Clarus takes you to dark places, uses you to sniff around the darkness for tracks in blood until all you can smell is copper and rust. He is afraid of breaking you while he continues to push you to the edge. Will you let him push you over, or do you intend to take the plunge yourself?”

“He gave me the chance to quit, and I didn’t take it,” Prompto hisses, “whatever dark places I’m subjected to look into, my eyes can adjust. I have to do this. I’m saving  _ lives _ . So if I have to look alone, then I’ll look alone.”

“Those dark places are too dark for you to simply adjust. Blinking a few times does not give the shadows any more substance than before,” Ignis says. “When you visited the place you killed Jared Hester not to find the killer, but to find yourself. What did you see in that place?”

“I saw Jared Hester stare back at me, and in the space, between my gun and his knife the darkness took the silhouette of a man and filled it with electrified air and water.” Prompto heaves a deep breath. “When my bullets hit, the water floods around me, and I feel the surge of static burn along my veins until it seizes my heart.”

“Your isolation is a double-edged sword, both a comfort and pain, but a comfortable pain that others wouldn’t understand,” Ignis says, “You are alone because you are unique.”

Prompto fiddles with his wristband. “You’re just as alone as me.”

\---

“Did you think you could change me as I changed you?” Ignis asks, running his bloodied fingers through Prompto’s golden hair as he digs the dagger deeper. He traces his smooth, shaven chin and jawline. Prompto looks heavenly, almost, with a halo of soft light over his head of gold and red. 

Prompto gasps, shaking from the pain convulsing through him. Ignis embraces him, and the smell of spice and chocobos and chemicals waft around them as their bodies press together. “I already did.” 

Ignis lets go, and Prompto stumbles to the ground. He clutches his stomach, feeling his blood ooze between his fingers, and he stares up at Ignis. He can still feel the phantom touches of where Ignis cradled his head and cupped his cheek, where the cool blade of his dagger was warmed by his gut. 

“I let you know me,” Ignis stares back, ash brown hair tousled and green eyes unobstructed by glasses. His voice trembles, raw with helpless furry. “I let you take my picture and see me through the lens of your camera. I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it.” 

“Didn’t I?” Prompto asks, swallowing the blood in his mouth. “I took so many pictures that my albums know no other image as well as they do you. You were supposed to leave.”

“We could’ve left together,” Ignis says, and beckons Talcott closer to him. “We were waiting for you. We couldn’t leave without you.”

Prompto’s heart clenches, pounding against his ribs as Talcott stands in front of Ignis, and he holds the knife over his neck. He knows exactly where to cut. “No, no no no  _ no _ -”

He sees the black chocobo laying on the other side of the kitchen as he tries to cover Talcott’s neck. The boy was barely twenty, barely healed, barely tethered to this world, and all Prompto wanted to do was pull him closer. Just to hold him for a bit longer. Just to show him how to adjust the settings on his camera, how to frame the shot, how to develop his film. 

“Let yourself go gently, Prompto,” Ignis whispers, moving a strand of hair out of Prompto’s face, “aline the walls of your fortress with the frames you feared to hang up, and ease yourself into the peaceful portraits of your gallery.” 

Prompto writhes on the ground as Ignis walks away. Talcott reaches for Prompto, panting for air through the pain, but Prompto’s limbs turn to lead. The blood beneath them splashes as he tries to reach back, but he can’t move. He turns his head towards the black chocobo, and watches as it heaves its final breath. 

\---

“He left you his broke heart,” Talcott says. Prompto turns to look at him, and under the lights that filter through the glass stained panels in Shiva’s temple, he sees him smile. He captures the image of it in his mind’s eye. 

“I didn’t realize he had a heart to break,” Prompto mutters as he walks down the aisle along the pews. He comes to a stop before the mosaic skeleton on the ground. It reminds him of the skull necklace Ignis always wore, a token of morality and a gift from a childhood friend. 

“I personally wanted to go to Altissa,” Talcott chirps, “I even said how romantic it would be, but he still planned on stopping here in Tenebrae first.” 

“To get married under Shiva’s eyes or find the tart recipe he could never perfect?” Prompto walks around the mosaic and up to the altar, looking up at Shiva’s statue.

“Probably to find the tart recipe,” Talcott says, admiring her statue.

“Shiva at first pitied us, saw our fleeting lives chasing fleeting dreams, and scoffed at the hope we cling to. Then she saw compassion in us. Witnessed our benevolence and bitterness in equal measures, but still grew to love us.”

“He would probably want to get married in front of Bahamut.” 

Prompto chuckles. “That sounds more like him.” 

“Ignis said-,” Talcott sits down the altar’s marble steps, “Ignis said we would’ve been a family.”

“Yeah,” Prompto sits down next to him, frowning, “yeah, I’m sure he did.”

“Did you want to be a family?” he asks, scratching the scar on his neck. “Didn’t you want to come with us?”

Prompto rubs the water from his eyes, taking a sharp breath. When he looks back at Talcott, there’s blood rushing down his neck, staining the sparkling marble and pooling at the edges of the mosaic. “A part of me will always wish that I had slipped away with him.” 

“And a part of me will always be with you, Prompto,” he says, and in a blink of an eye vanishes. 

\---

Prompto stares out over the cliff into the never-ending darkness for a moment. Altissa used to look beautiful at night. He hears the waves crashing against the base of the cliff, tastes the salted iron in his mouth, and feels the ocean’s breeze cool his boiling skin. The blood running down his skin and drenched in his clothes look black in the moonlight. He looks back to where Ardyn’s body would’ve laid, but it dissolved before it even hit the ground. There’s fire in his veins, as hot as Ifrit’s anger, and that pleasant churning in his gut. It feels like he’s burning alive. 

If this was the passion of the Astrals, then he hopes to feel it forever. 

“What happened?” Prompto asks, gazing at Ignis, but his gaze is returned with cloudy eyes. 

Ignis simply says, “Judgment.” 

“For what you are and what you did?” Prompto turns to face the ocean. 

Ignis hums. “For what I am not and what I did not do.” 

“That’s a fair price,” Prompto says, “I never thought things would go like this. It almost seems impossible, the way everything has played out. Like this reality was never meant to fit us.” 

“Do you think the Astrals tell the Oracle of the different realities? Perhaps we were the ones meant to bring darkness to light. Where our destinies were intertwined with red string between a king and his companion, and his shield and his advisor. Perhaps our love took a different shape in that reality, something shy and less cruel but still radiant.” Ignis stumbles closer, and Prompto catches him. 

He imagines it for a moment, entertains the idea of a greater journey, a bigger part in destiny, a different home, a different love. He would be the prince’s best friend, would follow him through the darkness and fight for him to reclaim his throne. It would a life sworn to service, but it would be a choice he would never regret.

“I wish we were in that reality, then,” Prompto pushes the strands of hair out of Ignis’ eyes, only for them to fall back, “it sounds nicer. Maybe I would’ve been just a normal human being.”

“You have said you are made of a different material to everyone else, that you are not an organic copy of normal society, but a solider made to kill. You are made of bitter fresh, branded, and burned by the compassion of the fates.” Ignis tugs at his waist, pulling him closer. “I believe in whatever iteration our lives take place, that you are truly you when you are made this way.”

Prompto’s breath hitches, his fingers reaching up to caress the scars over his eye, body melting in his embrace. “My real father tried to replicate the compassion of the fates and he created me. He loved me so fucking much he gave me my very own barcode and left instructions on which fleet to later send me. I am me in whatever parallel timeline or reality I’m in, in however way I am created, whether it’s through brimstone or a lab. It’s a fucked up love.”

“A cruel love is still love,” Ignis reaches out for Prompto’s wrist and feels the burned patch of skin over the tattoo, “like the love Jared Hester had for his grandson. You saw that love and it became part of your love for Talcott Hester, as well.”

“And what about your love?” Prompto asks, voice small and slightly trembling as their hands slip together. “Did you lose your sight for love?” 

“I did,” Ignis murmurs, “and I believe I would do it again.”

“You never became his advisor,” Prompto says, trailing his hand down to touch the cold silver of the skull. 

Ignis nods. “You never became his friend.” 

“You were curious about what would happen,” Prompto tries to keep his voice even, regain control over his shaking body, “you had a duty, you swore an oath, but even with so much at stake, you wondered what would happen if you were simply not there.”

“I removed myself from destiny’s plan,” Ignis rubs his thumb gently over Prompto’s hand, “but so did you. You walked a different path. The regret you hold from never approaching to see if that white stray puppy was hurt haunts you, and so you started picking up every stray you came across. You had a chance at friendship, but you were scared of the implications of your origins, of what your true nature was. If you were to befriend the prince, and I stayed as his advisor, we would have surely met sooner.” 

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Prompto twirls the chain around his finger, “thinking about what could have been. Or what should have been? I wonder if the gods can see us now if they would compare us to Shiva and Ifrit. Each other's opposites and equals. But I was a tool made to be used. When I die, I won’t have a soul to follow yours.”

“I have yet to see a being with a bigger soul than yours.” Ignis brings Prompto’s hand to his face and kisses his palm. “If the origins of your creation meant to make you a hallow shell, then you lived a life that filled it.”

“I guess I defied the gods then,” Prompto snorts.

Ignis gives him a soft smile. “You spurned your creators who sought to defy the gods. How wondrous you are, to gift yourself the blessing of a soul. Can you outline the boundaries of my soul? Will you trace the edges of it and smooth it over with my daggers, sharpen them against my sins and clean the blood from them with my sweat? Tell me, Prompto, will you photograph the spaces you hold in my heart and call them your home?” 

“If I actually have a soul, then I can barely determine where it ends and yours begins. It’s boundless, I think. The edges this reality carved out fit in tandem with mine. I am your home, too.” 

“In the absence of light, you took to the altar as my new sun, and held me steadfast in your warmth,” Ignis breaths, and leans down to gently kiss Prompto’s lips. 

Prompto smiles against the kiss. “How poetic.” 

“It’s quite true,” Ignis says, “the Oracle has died, the world is on the brink of ruin, and yet here we are, spouting poetry and love confessions.”

“You knew that I would know where to find you,” Prompto sighs, running his fingers through his ash brown hair, “I guess love confessions for you aren’t exactly simple.”

“We are not simple people,” Ignis replies, kissing Prompto’s cheek. 

And Prompto wonders what happens next. The natural progression of whatever destiny wrote doesn’t feel natural, like a jigsaw puzzle forced into place. But the sun rises one last time, and Prompto feels the warmth of it on his skin and the bright rays blinding his eyes. Ignis holds him closer. 

“This is all I ever wanted for you,” Ignis whispers, running his fingers over every bit of exposed skin he can find, “for us.” 

Prompto gasps, feels the pleasant electric shock course through him at every touch. His body feels on fire, burning to the very core, beyond his heart and head. Whatever he can perceive it as-euphoria, ecstasy, love-or even as the passion of the Astrals, whatever it is, he hopes to feel it forever. 

For a moment, Prompto has to close his eyes against the light of the sun. His vision goes blurry, spots filing his sight as he tries to blink and adjust to the brightness. But Ignis kisses him again, his soft lips pressing harder this time, and he closes his eyes. Prompto gasps, and Ignis slips his tongue in, deepening the kiss. 

“It’s beautiful,” Prompto murmurs when they pull away, eyes still closed and clinging to one another as they both fall over the cliffside. 

He hopes, in whatever reality they are in next, that they can find each other again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i deleted this cause i started to really hate it, but a friend convinced to post it again. i have a real love/hate relationship with this fic, but anyway thanks for reading, let me know what ya think


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